


Love Is Not (A Victory March)

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Masturbation, Multi, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing ... is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies.</em> ~ Erich Fromm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is Not (A Victory March)

**Author's Note:**

> **Happy Birthday, Mello! ♥**
> 
> This isn't what I was planning on writing for Mello's birthday, but there you go; at least it fits into the canon timeline (at least, it does in my head, pff), which was something I really wanted it to do, given that this is Mello's last canon birthday and all. *sadface* Anyways! First draft was scratched down to the tune of [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fORAPkfVV_A); it was fleshed-out-and-finished to the backdrop of [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xR0DKOGco_o). Most of all, though, a _huge_ hug-of-thanks goes out to my lovely Tierfal, who was nice enough to beta this for me, and also to assure me it wasn't complete crap. ;n;

Halle can't draw, but there are moments when she wishes she could, moments when she wants nothing more than to be able to seize the entire universe and place it onto paper for all eternity. Moments like this, here and present, when she would give anything, anything at all – except to leave right now – to capture the very light of the morning, when the morning goes like this.

Her thighs ache, her lower back aches and, when she moves, she wants to open her mouth and groan; instead, she rests upon her hip and lets the sheets shift against her. The sun is up – she thinks it's late morning, maybe – vague warmth captured at the window. The light spills shadows across her skin, across the bed. The mattress moves beneath her, just a little; shift, shift-shift, shift. Halle rests her hand upon her waist. Halle looks at the boys beside her. Her eyes trace the lines of their bodies, the shifting colour of the sunlight, the motions of Matt's back, of Matt's shoulders, as he pushes and moves against Mello. Mello has one of his legs up against Matt; the other rests easily outwards. She can see both of Mello's hands moving, tracing lines, invisible alphabets, psalms and benedictions against Matt's skin. The sheets tug, a sea of cotton whispering with their motions. The air smells of sex and semen, dusky candle smoke from hours earlier, gun oil, chocolate, cold coffee, and the clear wetness of herself. Halle would move over, would shift to join them, but they're locked in their own little galaxy, all gasps and breathy moans, all heartbreaking hush, only Mello's voice, in undertones, and Matt's lips shaping silent echoes. Maybe they're all going to die. Maybe it doesn't even matter anymore. Halle shifts the sheets, shifts her knees, slides her fingers down between her legs, through dry hair and into knowing dampness. Slides her fingers further, hips moving lazily against her hand as she watches. As she watches Matt's shoulders tense, his muscles tightening, re-arranging; as she watches Mello's mouth open even as his lashes cling shut. As she watches Matt shudder and his hand on Mello go still, then move faster, faster, pressing and needing and dragging the blond to the place Matt's already found himself. Halle's own hand moves deeper, fingers rubbing at the trembling itch the boys create within her. They're so beautiful when they fuck, so beautiful when their faces crease-still-span with the press of climax. Most beautiful of all, when they fall against each other, shushed, together, a gasp of peace, and the bed grows still but for the weight of their breathing, and the sway of her own restless, aching hips.

It's Mello who moves enough to put his mouth against her heat; kissing, breathing. Halle moves herself around him, shifts her weight to the space between her hips, lets her knees rise up and fall further apart. She knits her fingers in the sheets and watches, as Matt watches them. She thinks about the place her life has come to, about the things she never could have imagined, about the horror and the majesty, about the simple feel of Mello's hair against her thighs. She could come quickly now, if she wanted, with their eyes so warm upon her skin, but she doesn't; she draws it out, relaxing her body into the clear-bright pleasure, until Mello can replace his mouth with another part of himself; until she can wrap her legs against his back and have him push her towards oblivion.

Somewhere, Matt's watch beeps out the hour.

“Happy birthday, Mels,” the redhead whispers, soft amongst the pleasure. Halle sees him smile through the haze of it, feels his touch press the blond in closer to her, intoxicating, unreal, two shades away from everything she never knew she wanted.

“Happy birthday,” she concurs, and the words fade to white. One more death, to remind her she's alive.

Halle wonders what the end of the world will be like, if this is the prelude.

And maybe it doesn't even matter.


End file.
